


five days

by FaithNoMoar



Series: five days, one year, a lifetime [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Inspired by Titanic (1997), M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, RMS Titanic, Romance, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-27 16:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30125280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaithNoMoar/pseuds/FaithNoMoar
Summary: Patrick clambers up the stairs before reaching daylight again. It’s joy—pure joy, and excitement, and opportunity, and he can't help basking in it; surrounded by the roaring cheers of hundreds of people from every walk of life waving goodbye to the spectators out on the dock...and one remarkably well dressed man who looked absolutely miserable.Five days on the RMS Titanic, where Patrick Brewer, looking for a fresh start, meets David Rose, and everything changes.
Relationships: Johnny Rose/Moira Rose, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Theodore "Ted" Mullens/Alexis Rose
Series: five days, one year, a lifetime [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2217057
Comments: 40
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking time to read this labor of love that I've put a ridiculous amount of work and research into.
> 
> This is a completed fic that will be a part of a multi-fic series, with the POV alternating between Patrick and David.
> 
> Obviously, with the Titanic in play, I know some people might have concerns—but please know the tags provide all information you might need on the overall series. If you have additional concerns or questions, don't hesitate to comment/reach out and I'd be happy to provide any overarching warnings for this fic (or the series overall).

Patrick Brewer is running away to North America.

Does it count as _running away_ if it’s where you were born, where you were from, where you lived until you made the thought-it-was-smart-at-the-time decision to make sure your relationship stuck by moving to _England_ with your fiance and her family as they started a new life there—a new life that immediately began to suffocate you until you couldn’t take it anymore and used up all the money you had left to your name to get back home?

(It _does_ count.)

On paper, his life had been perfect. Perfect girl, perfect in-laws to-be, perfect job.

And sure, he could’ve just as easily blamed the whole thing on being homesick—insisted that as much as he loved Rachel, appreciated the job with the imports business her parents had been cultivating in England, he just...missed home, missed his parents, missed Canada.

But that would be a lie. Because it was all _wrong_ just as much as it should’ve been right, and Patrick knew it. He’d known it for a lot longer than he’d even like to admit to himself, and the guilt of knowing—knowing and still coming back to her, buying the ring, making the move to Europe, committing in every way besides the _final_ piece of paper, thank god—was what had finally driven him to end things.

And...run away to North America.

The thing was that Patrick Brewer wasn’t an impulsive person by nature—he was a planner, he was organized, he weighed the pros and cons of choices before diving headfirst into anything. It’s why he and Rachel had fallen back together a thousand and one times—every time they split apart and she sought him out again, the pros outweighed the cons. Rachel was kind, and smart, and funny, and Patrick _did_ enjoy being around her, Rachel’s family was close with his, they'd known each other since he was young—

Really, the only _con_ Patrick had logically been able to come up with was the sinking feeling in his gut that it was all _wrong._

It was a feeling he’d ignored until he physically couldn’t, until he had to finally face the fact that the idea of setting a date for he and Rachel’s wedding made him feel _ill,_ and that one con was significant enough that it wouldn’t be fair to _Rachel_ to even keep this going on any longer. 

Which is why, one Sunday in April, when James, a married thirty-something Patrick ran into every so often at the pub, started telling a story about how his wife was unexpectedly expecting and he’d have to cancel his travel to New York...well—Patrick didn’t _hesitate_ to make the single most impulsive decision of his life, pulling out money he had in his wallet from his prior week’s pay and slamming it down on the bar in exchange for his acquaintance’s ticket aboard the Titanic.

He should’ve felt worse about making the choice, buying the ticket off the guy before he’d even told Rachel he was leaving—but the immediate rush of _relief_ the moment the one-way ticket to New York City was in his hands completely abolished any sense of guilt. The _break_ , the real proper break in all of this had been a long time coming. He felt light, and _calm_.

Breaking off things with Rachel after dinner that night had been hard, and had come with more questions than Patrick knew answers to—

_Where are you going?_

Back to Canada, through New York. To stay with my parents again while I figure things out.

_When?_

In three days. The ship leaves Wednesday.

_How will you even get home?_

A train, probably—I honestly haven’t gotten that far yet, Rach.

That one had hurt—he’d seen it in her face. They’d been friends before they’d been a couple, and even if the romance had never worked, Rachel _knew_ Patrick; and wasn’t that a reassuring thing? Except now, all it meant was Rachel knowing Patrick Brewer, who had a plan for everything, didn’t truly have _any_ plan besides the fact that he just couldn’t be _here_ , _with her_ , any longer.

The last one nearly knocked the wind out of Patrick, though he’s still not sure why—

_Is there someone else? Some other girl, Patty?_

No.

The answer had been immediate and honest—because there wasn’t. In most cases, at the end of a long-term relationship, the immediate instinct to think a new person had entered the picture was understandable. But this wasn’t that. He explained as much to her, that he cared for her, even loved her even if it wasn’t in the way she deserved, and something just...wasn’t working. It was hardly fair to either of them to keep it going on any longer. That it was best to put as much space between them as possible, because old habits die hard—and that’s really all this had been for the last fifteen years. A habit. One Patrick was desperate to break without breaking his best friend’s heart too much.

He’d continued on, explaining that he didn’t want any money from her—the money he had left after buying the ticket from his paychecks would be enough to get him home, and he’d figure things out from there with his parents, that she could even have the flat he’d been renting if she still had an interest in branching out on her own, away from her parents and home. She’d insisted that maybe it was best they said their goodbyes that night—

And so Patrick Brewer was set free at dusk, dropping Rachel off at home—she’d insisted on breaking the news to her parents on her own, even after he’d offered more times than he could count to fall on that particular sword—driving away from his old life with the woman he’d been with for longer than the last decade’s final words to him rattling in his mind.

_I really hope you find what you’re looking for._

So he packed up his entire life—well, the important things, clothes for the journey, a handful of books and notebooks, his guitar—it was funny, really, how he’d realized how few things of importance he really had here. It was like he’d always known this stage in his life was only temporary. He’d arrived in the port in London last summer with a multitude of superfluous things, but by the time he’d parsed down what was truly important to him, he’d left for Waterloo Station first thing Wednesday morning with only one piece of luggage and his guitar case.

It hardly feels like running away as he sits on passage to Southampton—he’d spent the last few days expecting, at some point, for the panic to set in, the stress of making a journey at such a last minute, not knowing what his plans were when he arrived home after a long train ride and an even longer boat ride—but it never did. He’d sent a telegram to his parents Friday morning—

**COMING HOME ABOARD THE TITANIC. WILL TAKE TRAIN TO TORONTO. SHOULD BE THERE MORNING OF 18 APRIL. PATRICK**

—fully aware that they’d have questions, too, but for now, Patrick tried not to let any of that weigh on his mind. Instead, he focused on the sights that passed him by outside of the water train, letting the time tick past until they pulled into Southampton.

The crowds of other second and third-class passengers flooded out into the station—into more crowds. People as far as Patrick’s eyes could see, unlike anything he’d ever experienced in Ontario, in London—joyous commotion and chatter, yelling all the way down the street, stretching all the way to the water. 

Everything James had drunkenly rambled to Patrick about the Titanic, though, hadn’t prepared him for seeing it in person. Or maybe it had—it had been exactly the way the other man had described it, the way all the newspapers wrote it out, _massive, state of the art, unsinkable._ Maybe what really took Patrick’s breath away wasn’t the crowds of people already starting to board, the people he could see out on the decks; wasn’t the cranes lifting cars on board, or the massive steam engines; but instead, what the Titanic _meant_ for Patrick.

Home. Freedom. A fresh start.

Whatever it was he was looking for, this felt like a damn good place to start.

Patrick didn’t know where to keep his eyes focused as he was shuffled into the line for the medical checks with the rest of the third-class passengers, ticket gripped tightly in hand—the crowds of people around him speaking all sorts of languages, some he couldn’t even recognize, the hustle of the docks around him—

“Are you sure you’re in the right line?” A sharp voice knocks him out of his trance, eyes finding a crew member on the other side of the partition giving him a once over.

“—Yes, yes sir—” He replies quickly, setting down his guitar case and offering up his boarding pass as the man looks him over—eyes shifting between his clothes and his bags.

“London born and raised, Mr. Farrell?” He hums, glancing from the papers to Patrick, eyes scanning over the information printed on them.

Patrick freezes. “Uh, no, I’m not—”

“—’Course you are,” He continues, _something_ in his voice, something indicative of a deeper meaning Patrick can’t quite place. “Because as you know, Mr. Farrell, tickets aboard Titanic are non-transferable—”

It feels like the world is quickly sinking around him, his mind racing—shouldn’t he have looked into that? The legalities, the fact that his bar friend’s name, place of birth, all that was written down on the ticket, that he was going to another continent and you couldn’t just _hand over_ a ticket for someone else? He’d been so caught up in the idea of change and freedom—what’s he supposed to do now? He’d given up his flat, quit his job, told Rachel he was leaving the country, only really had enough money in his bag for a train ticket to Toronto when he got back home—

The crewman speaks again pointedly, interrupting his spiral. “—Just something to keep in mind.” And before Patrick can even process what’s happening, he’s being handed back his boarding pass and motioned forward with the crowd again. “Enjoy your journey, _Mr. Farrell._ ”

Mouth only gaping just slightly and head still spinning, he shuffles forward, _finally_ remembering to breathe. In 72 hours, he’d gone from Patrick Brewer, engaged book-keeper and business manager, to Patrick Brewer, (well, _James Farrell,_ at least to the crew onboard) single, unemployed, and taking someone else’s identity to board a ship to America. 

The rest of his boarding process went off without a hitch—his hair was dark enough and he was short enough that no one blinked twice at the information on James’ ticket and the man in front of them. It became clear that, as long as he didn’t make a fuss over the next week, he’d be fine. Patrick made a point to be perfectly polite through his medical screening, as crew members reminded him of the conditions of steerage travel, and before he knew it, he and his luggage were onboard the Titanic.

Between all the chatting among other passengers, babies crying, arguing couples, he managed to catch signs on the walls here and there, making his way through the maze of corridors until finally arriving at his room.

A pair of bunk beds lined the wall—with the top already filled with someone else’s things, Patrick moved to slide his luggage onto the lower bed. The rest of the room was sparse, but nice—not quite the second-class accommodations he’d had traveling to England nearly a year ago with Rachel and her family, but a far cry from the state he’d seen in some of the steerage rooms on that ship last summer.

_This was it._

Really, Patrick should be anxious—not only does he have barely a skeleton of a plan, but really, he’s not even meant to be here. Sure, plenty of folks cross the Atlantic back and forth all the time for far more illicit activities than breaking off a wedding to move home with your folks—and generally, people turn the other way, like the men out in the port. He’d heard enough stories from Rachel’s uncle or cousin or some other relative at holidays about old friends who brought back loads of tea and the like to Canada from England, and as long as they didn’t cause a problem, well—that was that.

But the idea of _technically_ illegally being on board this majestic ship, a journey he didn’t know he was taking when he woke up only three days ago, with no agenda, well—that would terrify the old Patrick. He’s not sure he’s a _new_ Patrick quite yet, but somehow, the idea of a week hasn’t put him into a panic yet. After a quick splash of water on his face and a deep breath out, all he can manage to feel, still, is that pulse of relief. Cautiously close to thrilled.

The crowds still roar outside—in the silence of the room with his thoughts, he can hear the calls for boarding, the crew members, the cars on the street bringing passengers to port. He’s not even sure how long passes that he just _sits there_ , soaking in what he’s done, where he is, and how strangely at peace he is with it. It might just be the first time he’s really _relaxed_ in years. A decade after spending so long constantly putting a face on he didn’t even realize he was faking.

Louder voices echoing from the hall outside catch his attention, dragging himself to his feet and leaving his luggage behind in the room, following a few other groups down the hall as they headed towards the stairs to the upper decks. Maybe this was new Patrick. Go-with-the-flow Patrick.

Well, okay—maybe not, but he’d be a fool to miss pulling out of port for an opportunity like this. The trip might not’ve been planned, but Patrick’s fully aware of the sort of once-in-a-lifetime opportunity he’s experiencing. 

He clambers up the stairs before reaching daylight again—this time, surrounded not by mindless chatter, but the roaring cheers of people from every walk of life waving goodbye to the spectators out on the dock. It’s joy—pure joy, and excitement, and opportunity, and Patrick can’t help basking in it, taking the moment to look around. Well-dressed passengers who clearly wandered up from their first class cabins chatting excitedly and pointing at the people below, crewmen in uniform marveling at the ship—and who could blame them for it? It was a wonder—children hanging off the railings laughing as their parents cheered and waved and—

One remarkably well dressed man who looked absolutely _miserable._

Maybe that was an exaggeration. The man didn’t look _miserable_ , but he stood out like a sore thumb—and not _just_ because of the white pinstripe suit he had on, with all sorts of odd folds that somehow just... _worked_ for him—

Which was hardly the point.

The _point_ , Patrick quickly reminds himself, is that among all the revelry of the ship departing, this man and his perfectly coiffed hair looked _completely_ disinterested, hanging back against the wall of what Patrick could only assume was the some space for crew, as far back from the railings on both sides as he could manage. What was the point of even coming up here?

Before he can even stop himself, the words tumble out of his mouth, calling out to the dark-haired man. “Looks like you’ve got a great view back there.”

The man’s gaze immediately snaps to Patrick—like he’s unsure if he’s more shocked that Patrick’s talking to him in the first place (which is fair—he’s pretty sure he’s not even supposed to associate with anyone on First Class, which it feels safe to assume this man is) or that he’s actually being called out on his behavior. “Excuse me?”

The sharp tone the other man gives him really should bother Patrick—he’s clearly offended him _somehow_ , but the tone also doesn’t sound unfamiliar to the stranger’s voice. “I mean—you came all the way up here and you’re not even gonna watch us pull out of the port? What’s the point?”

“What’s it matter to you?” He shoots back sharply—and Patrick can’t help but shrug, the shadow of a grin on his face. 

Expression unreadable, the other man at least leans up from his post against the wall, which he takes as a minor win. (Why is it a win? Because he’s teased a stranger into standing up straight?) “—If you _must_ know, I thought I’d come here to get a brief respite from my family for the first time in a month. I didn’t think there’d be—” He motions with his hand lamely. “All these people out here.”

And _that,_ that gets a laugh out of Patrick. “So you’re saying—you’re saying this record-breaking, unsinkable ship is pulling out of port for the first time, and you...didn’t expect to run into anyone else on deck? Didn’t think anyone would want to watch us go?” 

“It’s _water_ , why do they all need to look at _water—_ we’re all going to see nothing but water for the next _week._ ” The man replies flatly, lips twisting into something that might be a smile—or might be something trying to hide a smile, before his mind seemingly catches up to what he’s been doing. “I don’t owe you an explanation. I don’t know you.”

“No, you’re right, you’re right,” Patrick agrees with a hum, crossing his arms over his chest, finally registering the familiar twang to the other man’s voice that tells him this man is going home just as much as Patrick is. 

“—Besides—” The man goes on, as if he’s had a continuation of his last thought that he just _has_ to add, even though moments earlier Patrick thought they’d hit the end of their brief conversation. “I don’t even know any of those people out there. Who are they even waving at?”

Patrick shrugs. “My dad told me once it comes from back in the days where navigation wasn’t great—people were just happy to see boats coming home, so they’d wave.”

“Okay, well— _my_ dad won’t shut up about how fucking impressive this ship apparently is, so all of _this_ is clearly unnecessary.”

“ _The Queen of the Ocean,_ ” Patrick hums back, remembering the title from one of the pamphlets James had shown him in the bar. Cautiously, he takes a step towards the other man as the crowds get louder—and it becomes harder to hear him speak without yelling. It’s the wrong choice, though—clearly the talk has gone on long enough in the stranger’s mind.

“—Okay, well—you have fun...waving at nobody.” He huffs, and before he can escape, Patrick’s shooting right back.

“Have fun with your family!” It’s a bit too earnest intentionally, and he can’t help but laugh at the groan that comes from the other man’s mouth as he escapes into the crowd back towards the stairwell.

It’d been nice, the brief flash of conversation—even if Patrick still isn’t sure why he’d even started it, why he’d egged the man on. Maybe this was just another part of new Patrick—a sense of comfort with strangers. He had to be, spending the next week with nothing _but_ strangers.

Still, as he turns back to the railing to wave to _nobody_ —but, really, to wave goodbye to Rachel and the family that at one point was going to become his, to the country he thought he was settling in for _home_ , to the life he thought he’d been stuck in—Patrick can’t seem to shake the sharp gaze and tight, hidden smile from his mind, even as they pull out of port.

The stranger was the closest thing to a friendly conversation—if you could call it that—he’s had since he decided to uproot his entire life. That had to be it. There was no other reason Patrick could think of.

He’s still so stuck on it when they’re finally at sea that he’s sure he’s seeing things—because for a moment, he thinks he catches a flash of white pinstripes and dark hair looking out over the railing a few decks up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who the fuck does he think he is?”  
> “Who, David?”  
> “The—the guy, are you listening to anything I’m saying at all? Why are you even here?”  
> Honestly, David was sure his sister hadn’t been listening to him. Once he’d finally accepted defeat and came back down to his cabin, Alexis hadn’t hesitated in wandering from her own room to his and making a home for herself on the couch, only half listening to his rants about the random guy who’d “practically accosted” him on the deck.

“Who the fuck does he think he is?”

“ _Who_ , David?”

“The—the _guy_ , are you listening to anything I’m saying at all? Why are you even here?”

Honestly, David was sure his sister hadn’t been listening to him. Once he’d finally accepted defeat and came back down to his cabin, Alexis hadn’t hesitated in wandering from her own room to his and making a home for herself on the couch, only half listening to his rants about the random guy who’d _“practically accosted”_ him on the deck.

“Mmm, no,” She agrees, leaning back on the cushions. “But tell me again. I’ll listen this time, I promise—you just came down in such a huff and it wasn’t about me this time—” He shoots her a glare. “— _David,_ tell me.”

He gives her an exaggerated, exasperated sigh, once more to pacing around the room. “I went upstairs to take a break from hearing mom bitch about how the crew was handling her wigs and dad telling me for the umpteenth time how big the ship is—”

Alexis nods in agreement. “—Understandable—”

“— _Thinking_ I’d get some peace and quiet, you know, since there’s so much fucking space on this boat, apparently, but I get up and there’s like...a _thousand_ people up there, so I’m just minding my own business and this... _guy—”_

Alexis interrupts him. “Was he hot?”

“—That’s not the point.”

“—So he _was,_ ” And maybe he was, in that plain, domestic sort of way, but David resents her tone, so he ignores her again.

“—This _guy,_ ” He continues pointedly, finally taking a seat on the end of his bed for the next seven days. “Basically told me I was like, _wasting my life_ because I wouldn’t wave at strangers in a crowd.” 

Alexis immediately brushes off his exaggeration with a pointed glance. It frustrated him to no end, the way she somehow, despite barely being physically _present_ half the time still managed to see right through him. “Are you _sure_ that’s what happened, David?”

Well, it’s close enough to the truth, at least.

“I mean, I paid an obscene amount of money to be here for the next week—”

“—You mean _dad_ paid an obscene amount of money for us to be here—”

He doesn’t hesitate in continuing his sentence, completely ignoring her (even if she’s right). “—So who is _he_ to police what I’m doing on the deck?”

Alexis takes a moment to think about what he’s said, a pregnant pause between the two of them before she meets his eyes again. David’s sure he’s not going to like whatever she’s about to say _exclusively_ from the glint he catches in her gaze. “—But you did stay, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“I mean, you just came down. So either you talked to this guy—for, what, thirty minutes?—who you can’t stop complaining about, _or_ you _listened to him_ and stayed to watch the ship pull out.”

David bristles almost immediately, jaw clenching. “I could’ve just stayed and hung towards the back of the crowds for a half hour. You don’t know.”

“But you didn’t.”

But he didn’t.

It’s not like he’d planned on it. Or done it because some random guy told him it was for good luck, or something. Even if the guy was _cute_ in a comforting sort of way—like a _puppy_. “—Okay, you don’t need to put me on _trial_ ,” He shoots back, brows furrowing as the glee in being _right_ washes over his sister’s face. “I just wasn’t ready to come back down, and I was getting _bored._ ”

“Sure, David,” Alexis nods, getting to her feet and approaching him—and he knows instantly that she doesn’t believe him. He works to keep his expression level as she moves to _boop_ her finger against his nose, making a point to grimace after the fact (even if it’s been a mainstay of their sibling relationship for nearly two decades, the back and forth rehearsed well at this point).

“—Don’t you have a _husband_ you could be bothering right now instead of me?” The jab is half-hearted and they both know it.

“You know it’s much more fun for me to bother you when you’re in a huff,” She replies, almost fondly. “Besides, Ted doesn’t get bothered by me. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t _lonely._ ”

It feels like salt in the wound, really—the spare ticket that was _supposed_ to be for David’s ex still sat unused in one of his pieces of luggage. He’s not even sure Sebastien could be called an ex—sure, he’d come to England with David and his family. That _felt_ serious. But anything resembling a semblance of a real relationship had shattered when he’d left before they even checked into their guest house—

Granted, Sebastien had also been seeing other people—David wasn’t stupid. He knew. And he’s sure Sebastien _knew_ he knew, but—for some reason he’d stayed, for some reason David had invited him on their vacation to England, for some reason he’d offered to pay for his travel, for some reason he expected _this_ would be what would change things. Instead, Sebastien had taken the trip across the Atlantic and then left David to _explore his passions_ across Europe, whatever the _fuck_ that meant, before they'd even unpacked.

“I’m not _lonely,_ ” He insists in a huff. For a brief moment, there’s a flash of genuine concern in his sister’s eyes. “I’m not,” He repeats, a little softer this time. “Really. Go have fun or whatever—I’m gonna make sure they didn’t ruin any of my clothes or anything.” She gives him one more glance before suddenly leaning down to wrap her arms around him in some attempt at a hug.

“ _Fine_ David,” Alexis agrees on an exhale—and as much as he wants to object, he lets her have this. 

They never used to be like this—and things are still _far_ from perfect. But Ted’s mellowed her out; there’s no _completely_ taming Alexis Rose, but...things are better. He’d never have been able to tolerate a month in the guest house with his sister and parents for a _family vacation_ or whatever otherwise.

“—But don’t just...sit here and sulk or whatever, okay?” She adds, finally letting him go and standing back to full height. Before he can retort, she’s going on. “—Like, really. Dad’ll be pissed if you don’t at least do _one_ thing on his list.

“—I’ll drop dead before he gets me into that gym.” He purses his lips tight, holding back a smile echoing his sister’s. “Maybe the pool. _Maybe_.”

That seems to satisfy her enough, her finger tapping his nose with a _boop_ before she flutters out of the room, wandering back to her own cabin one door over, calling back to him before the door shuts.

“Don’t be late for dinner!”

“Like I’d ever!”

Once the whirlwind that is Alexis Rose is gone, David’s left alone with his thoughts—something he’s always found fairly dangerous. He takes the time to do what he’d told his younger sister he would, sorting through his things the crew brought in, making sure nothing was damaged and everything is accounted for. 

It doesn’t take as much time as he expects, though, and David eventually finds himself sifting through his clothes two, maybe three times before forcing himself to change to explore the ship. The bespoke pinstripe suit he’d had made for boarding was beautiful, but it was hardly the sort of thing to be wandering the ship in—instead opting to slip on a wool cardigan and a simple floral button up.

Simple for him, at least.

David slips out into the hallway, relieved to see as he starts to reach some of the common areas that the crowds have thinned out now that Titanic’s pulled out of the dock. It’s not like he knows where anything is, but he owes it to Alexis (and, ugh, also his father) to at least _explore_ the ship and see what there is to do for the next week. 

Even he has to admit that it’s nicer than any ship they’ve used for travel before, and that’s saying something.

He takes the grand staircase down to the next deck, passing through the doors at the bottom and continuing through the ship—there’s no particular destination to his journey, though he’d recalled his father mentioning the pool and Turkish baths down on the F deck. After wandering what feels like for hours on E, he finally slips down another staircase—far less ornate, ending up in an unfamiliar looking hallway when he reaches F deck.

David turns to start down the hall, looking for any sort of sign that’ll direct him towards his loose destination. But there’s nothing—only walls of doors, steam pipes above his head, and—

Coming from around the corner, the _guy_ from the deck. Christ.

He tries to turn before the other man spots him, but he knows he’s caught the second that _smirk_ crawls onto his face. “Okay, are you _stalking me_?” He bursts out—it only manages to make the grin on the stranger’s face widen, and he immediately regrets engaging. 

“Considering I just left my room and you’re in the third-class corridors, I think I’ve got a better case for you stalking me. Still trying to avoid your family?”

Fuck. “—I was trying to find the _pool._ ”

The man starts coming towards David—and he gives himself the moment to notice things about him _besides_ that awful smile and the head-to-toe shades of blue clothing—light blue shirt, navy wool trousers. (He knows he doesn’t have the space to talk as someone who’s, more often than not, completely monochrome—and besides, now that the man’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, David’s far from one to object to a show like _that._ ) 

But there’s a book in his hand, too, and he’s giving David a look that he’s not entirely familiar with. Like he’s actually interested in what David has to say. It almost throws him off-guard.

“Well, I think you must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere, uh—”

And there’s that look again, like he’s expecting David to say something—it takes a second, but then it hits him like a brick. The man is asking for his name. It takes him off guard—and it shows on his face. “—David Rose,” He finally admits.

“—David Rose,” And goddamnit, David doesn’t hate the way his name sounds on the other man’s lips before he continues. “Because I haven’t even _heard_ about the pool on board.” He pauses, then—David feels like they’re on uneven footing now, he and this stranger who knows his name and remembered he was staying with his family and, for the first time, it doesn’t scare him. 

“But,” The man continues, a tentative tone to his voice. It’s the first bit of actual vulnerability David’s picked up from him, and somehow, David finds it charming—makes him less prickly about the teasing. “I’d be happy to try to help you find it?”

In fact, if David Rose, the man who survived a decent portion of his 20s flirting and being flirted with, was any kind of expert—which he was—he’d almost think this poor guy’d been trying to _flirt_ with him.

“Well, I’d take you up on that, but—honestly, I still stick to the tried and true rule of not running off with strangers—” He shoots back coyly, lips twisting to the side as he poorly attempts to hide his smile.

“—Patrick. Brewer,” The man—Patrick—replies, before David can even continue to tease him. “And you don’t really strike me as the kind of guy who plays by the rules.”

 _Definitely_ flirting. And David doesn’t hate it, even though he _should_ , because this guy’s in chambray and wool that doesn’t fit him as well as it could, and has done nothing but tease him—but that’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s spoken to Patrick twice, and Patrick had paid enough attention to him to remember things from their first conversation. He’s never felt _bad_ about the teasing, either—worked up, maybe, but—

God, he’d hate to admit that Alexis was right. But he’d stayed to watch the ship pull out of port—from a higher deck, obviously, to maintain his pride—because some stranger ( _Patrick_ ) said he should. He’d caved almost instantly—and god, he could be stubborn if he wanted to.

But he _hadn’t_ wanted to. He’d wanted to see whatever it was that put that sparkle in the stranger’s eyes. David’s pretty sure he’s never been that excited, that earnest in his entire life.

(If he’d watched the man a few decks below him hang over the railing, he’d never admit it. He’d go to the squash field, or whatever the fuck it was called, first.)

“Mm, not sure what gave you that idea,” He hums, still grinning just barely. “But if you really don’t have anything better to do, I _suppose_ I can let you get lost with me.”

“I’m honored,” Patrick laughs, and _god_ , he’s fucked with that laugh alone. How did he even _get here?_ “I was honestly just going to go find a place to read on the deck—my new roommate’s a bit chatty.” And just like that, they’re walking step in step through the corridors, wandering. Looking for the pool. Definitely looking for the pool.

“You’re sharing a room with a stranger?” David grimaces.

“Well, when one has a solo ticket in steerage, David—”

He’s struck between being horrified at sharing a living space with someone he’s never met for the week and delighted at the idea that Patrick’s here on his own. “You couldn’t get _one friend_ to join you on _The Queen of the Ocean_?” The words come out a bit over dramatic—the same way Patrick had said it to him earlier, attempting to mask the information he’s fishing for under a joke.

An emotion crosses Patrick’s face that David can’t entirely place—and for once, he looks like he’s intentionally avoiding eye contact. “—Would you believe me if I told you I spontaneously bought this ticket three days ago to run away from an engagement to a woman I didn’t want to marry?”

That stops David in his tracks. Patrick walks a few steps before he realizes David isn’t walking anymore, and the look on his face when he turns back is one that’s new to David—and that he’s already hoping he’ll never have to see again. “I’d say you don’t strike me as a spontaneous kind of a guy,” He hums—and clearly that was the right thing to say, because Patrick’s smiling again—and David’s smiling back.

“I’m not,” Patrick shrugs, waiting for David to start walking again and falling into step with him. “I’d just...always didn’t feel right in it, so—I got this opportunity, and it felt like a sign. Quit my business job, left my relationship and apartment, and...here I am.”

“Well...I think that’s very brave,” David replies, hoping it comes off earnest instead of awkward—it’s somewhere on that spectrum, he’s sure. For the second time, it seems like he’s said the right thing, if the look on Patrick’s face is anything to go by. It’s hardly something he’s used to. “—Taking the _ship of dreams_ thing really literally, huh?”

“No, no,” And there’s that laugh again as they start up the stairs, echoing against the metal walls, ringing around David’s chest. “I mean—I don’t really have a plan past ‘take a train to Toronto’ and ‘move back in with my parents’. But I guess if you qualify being unemployed, broke, and living at home in rural Canada as a dream—”

“Mm, I don’t,” David murmurs smoothly, catching the quirk of Patrick’s lips he earns in response. 

“Me either,” Patrick agrees. “But I’ll figure it out. Feels like now I’ve finally got the chance.”

The words are a little heavy, ringing through the air between them for a few moments. David’s trying not to overthink it—the teasing he _thinks_ is flirting, even if Patrick’s not aware of it, the other man’s earlier excitement about watching the ship leave, how he’s clearly all plans and still made a dramatic call to run away from a _wrong_ relationship via a last minute trip to another continent—

“You’re from Canada?” He blurts out before he can start down _that_ thought train.

“Mhm. Let me guess—New York?”

“—By _way_ of Toronto, thank you very much.” Patrick instantly looks like he doesn’t believe him. “Okay, fine, I haven’t lived there since I was a _kid_ , and I’m technically an American citizen now, but—”

“I’ll still give it to you.”

“ _Thanks_ ,” He rolls his eyes fondly. “I was worried I was about to get my Canadian card revoked.”

“Oh, you get cards in first class?”

David holds back his grin with flat lips, nodding. “ _Yes_ , yes we do—” He holds the expression for only a moment—

But then he can’t keep it up any longer, even now that they’re somewhat out in the open, out of the staircase—he just starts laughing, and Patrick’s laughing too. And maybe they’re making a scene outside another set of third class cabins, maybe David should be horrified at the people looking at them, but he can’t bring himself to care.

(There’s a voice at the back of his head that won’t stop with the intrusive thoughts about how this can’t be permanent, how, sure, maybe this man, against all odds, is flirting with him—but they’ll go their separate ways at the end of the week and he’ll probably never see Patrick Brewer again. But he fights back that a week of a new friend and some _harmless flirting_ is far from the worst thing someone’s abandoned him after. It’s a distraction with a mutual expiration date. That’s all.)

He starts them walking again—back in the direction he’d come from earlier, when he’d gone on auto-pilot and somehow missed a sign _somewhere_ that sent him to the wrong place that turned out all _right—_

But then it’s Patrick’s turn to stop in his tracks.

“I think this’s as far as I can chaperone you, David—”

And god, he should’ve seen it coming—the regret. It always comes, sooner or later. Only this time, David wishes it had been at least a _little_ later, so he doesn’t have to spend the rest of the week avoiding Patrick. But when he opens his eyes (when had he even closed them?), it’s not regret he sees on Patrick’s face. In fact, Patrick’s not even _looking_ at him.

He turns over his shoulder, following the other man’s line of sight, finally realizing what Patrick means. Above the walkway—one that, according to the plaque, leads towards the second class dining room and, David catches, the stairway to the pool, courts and baths—is a bold sign hanging from the ceiling.

**FIRST AND SECOND CLASS ONLY.**

“Really, I wasn’t even supposed to be up on the deck with you earlier,” Patrick continues, his admission sheepish sounding. “And I didn’t get busted for it ‘cause of the crowds, but third class’s kind of roped off on our own section of the ship. Something about making sure folks from deeper in the continent don’t get anyone else sick. You all can wander wherever you want, but that doesn’t go both ways.”

“But you’re from _Canada_. You were staying in _England_. You’re a rule follower.” He shimmies his shoulders at that, teasing. “I’m sure you’ve got all your shots.”

That cracks another brief smile on the man’s face. “Not my rule, David,” He replies with a frown; David shouldn’t be so happy that Patrick looks just as disappointed as he feels. “But—” And god, David hates the pang in his chest that one word gives him. “You go check out the pool, if that’s _really_ what you were doing—” David’s lips twist into a small smile. “I can go on with—reading my book on the third class deck, or something. Maybe grab lunch first. If you still wanted some space from your family, you...could join me, at some point, before dinner?”

The simplicity of the offer throws David for a loop. Almost too much, because apparently it’s been a second too long for an answer, and Patrick’s rambling again, eyes fixed on the ground.

“—I mean, not like—we’ve got a tiny roped off section of the deck, and you’ve got this whole ship to explore, and you don’t _really_ know me, but I just figured—if you didn’t have anything else to do, which, _of course_ you have other things to do—”

“I’ll come find you.”

Patrick’s eyes snap up to his—surprised, hopeful, something David can’t place. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” He nods, thoughtlessly fussing with the silver rings on his fingers. “But only after _I’ve_ eaten lunch. You’ve just reminded me that I haven’t eaten since we left the guest house, and that’s unacceptable.”

Patrick huffs—a half sort of laugh, the corners of his lips turned into a small smile as . “Completely understandable,” He replies, starting to back up into the third class corridor.

“I just feel like I need to be honest about my priorities—” David calls back, still looking at Patrick as he steps through the passageway towards the second class dining room.

“—I’ll see you later, David.”

The moment Patrick Brewer’s back is turned, and the shadow of him disappears down the hallway, David Rose allows himself to properly smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's David! When I was debating what POV to write this story from, I knew a back-and-forth between the two of them would give this relationship the richest perspective, so I hope I do the both of them (and Ted, Alexis and company) justice!
> 
> As always, let me know what you think, and subscribe if you want to read more! I appreciate any and all kudos, comments and thoughts as we go on this journey. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I might be gay.  
> It’s the first thing that runs through Patrick Brewer’s mind the second he’s back in his cabin, closing the door behind him and immediately leaning back against the metal, clutching his book to his chest. It’s the first time he thinks he breathes since he turned his back on David Rose and made his way back from where they’d walked, and spoken, and...flirted? Really, Patrick had been flirting before he’d even realized what he was doing. Had he been flirting even up on the deck without realizing it?

_I might be gay._

It’s the first thing that runs through Patrick Brewer’s mind the second he’s back in his cabin, closing the door behind him and immediately leaning back against the metal, clutching his book to his chest. It’s the first time he thinks he breathes since he turned his back on David Rose and made his way back from where they’d walked, and spoken, and...flirted? Really, Patrick had been flirting before he’d even realized what he was doing. Had he been flirting even up on the deck without realizing it?

No, no—he shakes off the thought quickly. He’s here on the boat alone for a week. It’s natural to be excited about making a friend, finding someone to spend his time with after turning his life upside-down. It doesn’t matter that David matches him wit for wit, or has a smile that he’s determined to hide, or—

“Patrick!”

Patrick jumps, so caught up in his own head that he’d completely forgotten that Ray Butani, his roommate whose things had been stored on the top bunk, had been in the cabin when he’d left not so long ago. And that he’d left in the first place to find some _peace and quiet_ to read.

Christ, he really does have to clear his head.

“Hey Ray,” He replies lamely, throwing his book onto the bed and moving over to the sink against the wall. He splashes water on his face, trying to snap himself back into reality as Ray talks.

“I wasn’t expecting you back so soon! Was the deck really so crowded already that you couldn’t find a place to settle in with your reading?”

“Nope, nope, just—” Patrick needs an excuse. “Got a little light-headed in the hall, y’know. Thought I’d come rinse off my face to try and cool down, maybe grab some food before I go up—”

Which he quickly realizes was the _wrong_ lie to tell—because Ray’s swinging his legs over the edge of his bunk, climbing down and practically right next to Patrick with the size of their room. “Wonderful! I was thinking about grabbing a bite too, if you don’t mind me joining you—of course, I’ll be happy to give you your _alone time_ when you want to go off and read, but—”

“Yep, yeah—of course,” He resigns, taking one last look in the mirror at himself, using his damp hands to adjust his hair, the wavy bits starting to betray his curls as it gets longer, before turning to Ray. “Let’s get going.”

The sooner he eats, the sooner they can part ways and he can go wait outside for David.

(He feels awful about being a bit exhausted with Ray but looking forward to time with David. But having David as a new friend, he reasons, is much different than Ray—Ray was perfectly nice, but, Patrick thinks, best handled in small doses. Maybe it would be the same with David, if they were forced to share quarters. Too much time spent with any one person couldn’t be optimal for the health of the relationship. Friendship. Companionship. Whatever it was.)

He grabs his book again and follows Ray from the room, politely listening to his stories about growing up in London, his past relationships, and more along the way before they finally arrive in the Dining Saloon. It’s not crowded at all yet, and Patrick’s grateful they don’t have a difficult time sitting themselves down at one of the long mess tables, sandwiched between an Irish family and what Patrick guesses are a group of young people from France.

Lunch itself is relatively uneventful—though Patrick’s sure he’s going to get kicked off the ship mid-ocean every time Ray is overly blatant about calling him _James_ with a relatively obvious wink when staff from the ship pass by where they’re seated. It’s not like he regrets telling the other man about his ticket mix-up and fake identity—god forbid someone from the crew comes to the room asking about him—but he spends the better part of a half an hour wondering if there had been any other option.

To his credit, Ray is extremely light-hearted conversation, even when the topic of the conversation is sour, and talks so much that he provides Patrick with more than enough distractions from his thoughts while they eat, trading stories about business and family until their plates were empty of all the beef, potatoes, and corn they’d started with.

It takes Patrick a little longer than he’d like to shake his roommate off, and ends up on the receiving end of a seemingly endless tale about a couple Ray had been landlord to when he’d lived in Liverpool and their marital woes (of which there had been _many_ )—but eventually, they part ways, Ray headed back to their room and Patrick _finally_ making his way towards the deck.

Patrick can feel himself relax the moment the fresh air fills his senses. He’s always been a fan of the outdoors, making time for walks and hikes whenever he’s been given the opportunity. Over the last year, though, he’s really only had time for the short walks he’d take to restaurants or pubs, the nice weather days where he’d forgo a ride and walk to the office—all of his free time became time with Rachel and her family, wedding planning talks, nodding and smiling and—

Which was _fine._ It was fine. It’s just not...the man Patrick is.

He’s starting to realize more than anything that he doesn’t have a grip on _who_ that man is.

It’s a wild realization to be having at thirty years old, Patrick thinks, taking the last set of stairs up to the deck and settling himself on a bench. There’s a few scattered other people around, peering over the railings at the miles of ocean around them in every direction. The shore’s only just visible—they’ve got more stops to make tonight and tomorrow before they’re properly out at sea, but the enormity of it all is still a sight to see.

At first, Patrick’s perfectly content with his book. His eyes pass over lines of text, trying to get lost in the fictionalized version of London that J.M. Barrie dreamt up, so different from the one he’s leaving behind. But the first time someone passes by, he finds himself instantly snapped out of the fantasy, gaze flipping upwards.

When it’s not a familiar smirk and a flash of dark hair looking back at him, he deflates.

It’s not like it’s something to be disappointed about. David said he’d meet him here after lunch, at some point. He had family to see, and eat with, and Patrick’s sure he’d rushed through his meal with Ray faster than a normal meal. And David’s a stranger who doesn’t owe him _anything—_

“—Hey.”

He’s so in his own head that he doesn’t even notice when David _does_ show up, standing in front of him with his own twisted grin and a new outfit, and can’t help the immediate smile that finds itself on his face. “Hi.”

“Got a lot of reading done, I see—” He hums, and Patrick glances down—

He’s at best twenty pages in, and feels his face warm at the teasing.

“—And I wouldn’t have guessed you were a _Peter and Wendy_ guy.”

That bit gives Patrick a second to recover from his earlier flustering, his eyebrows raising in surprise. “—What kind of guy did you think I was?”

A _look_ flashes across David’s face at Patrick’s words, and for the first time, the thought flashes through his mind—

 _Okay. Maybe I_ **_was_ ** _flirting._

That’s _something_.

He saves David the same way the other man had saved him, continuing his thought in a somewhat self-deprecating tone. “—But you’re right, I’m not usually. Honestly, when I was packing, I just took a bunch of books from my shelf—” He shrugs. “I don’t think I’ve even opened it. I’m usually more of a non-fiction guy, but...figured I’d try something new. See if it feels right.” It feels like a heavier statement than a conversation about reading, and there’s something in David’s gaze that’s knowing.

He sits down beside Patrick then, leaning back against the bench in a comfortable way that seems so natural, crossing his legs and looking over—he feels like he’s being watched, but it doesn’t make him feel uneasy. It’s the opposite, really. He slips his finger from the pages of the book, shutting it in his lap.

“Don’t stop reading on my account,” David pipes up, the crease of his brow revealing an almost unfamiliar flash of guilt across his face. “You wanted some quiet time, I’m just—keeping you company, or whatever.”

“I needed some space from my roommate,” He insists, setting the book down on the bench next to him as if that’s somehow making a point. “I _asked_ you to come spend time with me.” He gestures around them. “On the third class deck. I’m not gonna sit here and _ignore_ you.”

There’s a brief flash of something on David’s face again—something he’s caught a few times in response to simple things he’s said, or gestures he’s made in their relatively short time as friends—companions, two people on the same ship. Patrick’s not sure what it is, but it always seems to land somewhere between surprise and comfort. As if right now, he’s taken aback by the idea that Patrick asked him to join him and actually meant it, meant he wanted David’s company—which, _god_ , he did—

“Well,” He finally replies slowly. “That was your first mistake.”

And even though it’s self-deprecating, Patrick has to laugh. “Well, can’t take it back now.”

For a moment, then, they sit in silence. David watches the other people on the deck, like he had been earlier today when Patrick had first seen him—and hopefully, subtly, Patrick watches David, trying to piece together the fragments of information he’s gathered about this man in some attempt to figure him out.

He’s not sure it’ll work, but it feels worth trying.

Because this is now David Rose’s _third_ outfit of the day, and Patrick’s trying to figure out if that means anything, if it’s something that’s okay to poke and prod at the way he’s been teasing David since they were strangers down on the lower levels. Already, they’re in a place where a silence between them is comfortable, not awkward, which—even if they’re not friends feels like a safe enough place to start.

“—David.” His name said aloud snaps the other man’s attention back to Patrick—and it takes everything in him not to break his entire charade under that look. “I have to ask you something.”

David’s eyes widen just slightly; it’s what makes Patrick realize how _close_ they are to one another on the bench, the fact that he can notice such a subtle thing. “—I mean—it depends what you—but—uh...sure,” He finishes almost lamely, not breaking eye contact.

He only lets David sweat it out for a moment or two before the corners of his lips betray him, turning into the slightest of smiles. “Did you change clothes for me? _Again?”_

If Patrick didn’t know better, he’d think a _blush_ found its way to David Rose’s cheeks. If he didn’t know better, he’d have to be much more concerned about the fact that he was _thrilled_ he’d made David Rose blush. But he _did_ know better, and there was no blush, and there’s no way Patrick had put it there.

“—First of all, I didn’t change earlier for _you_ ,” He huffs, and if his face is a little red, Patrick blames it on the frustration evident in his voice. “If you’ll recall, I wasn’t looking for _you_ before.”

“But you were looking for me now,” He volleys back, a bit more confidence in his voice seeing how flustered the taller man got. “And this _is_ a new outfit.”

And while there’s a part of David that’s clearly pleased that Patrick’s noticing his clothing choices, it’s all overtaken by the sheer exasperation radiating off of him. “That wasn’t an _outdoor sweater_ —”

Patrick’s laughing again. And for a second, David looks offended, like he’s worried Patrick is laughing _at_ him—but god, he’s not. There are things about David Rose that should be humorous or aggravating, and all Patrick can find himself able to feel is curious and delighted. The moment he catches that there’s no malice in Patrick’s laughter, his face is twisted back into that smile again, and his eyes roll. “It’s _not_ ,” He insists again half-heartedly, but Patrick’s still chuckling—

And maybe they’re a little too close for two people who only met a few hours ago, but Patrick can’t entirely bring himself to care; in fact—

“Mr. Rose?”

Patrick nearly jumps out of his seat, sliding along the bench and away from David as the voice snaps them out of the moment. He turns to see one of the ship’s staff looking pointedly between the two of them, only briefly managing to give David an apologetic look—though he’s not sure what he’s sorry for. 

“Yes?” David manages, his voice strained.

“I’m sorry, it’s just—You know, you’re not meant to be up here, Mr. Rose—for your own health and safety, of course,” The crewman continues, his stare shifting to Patrick as he gives him a once-over. “Is this man bothering you?”

Of _course_. They hadn’t been caught earlier—but it makes sense that, if Patrick and other members of third class weren't able to mingle in with the other passengers for fear of disease, those other passengers wouldn’t be allowed up by them either. Really, he should have had more forethought. He’s not sure _what_ he’d been thinking earlier, besides the fact that he had just...wanted to see David Rose again.

“Of course he’s not,” And before Patrick can register what’s happening, one of David’s arms is reaching across to drape around his shoulders, the other hand gripping his arm gently. The touch makes him dizzy—but fortunately, David’s still talking, so Patrick can allow himself to be paralyzed for the moment. “My partner here just got all turned around looking for a quiet spot, isn’t that right, darling?”

Partner.

Darling.

Wait. That was him. David was talking to him. About him.

And somehow, the words come out without Patrick really even thinking, the lie as easy as breathing. “Sorry, sir—I was out reading and was just trying to get a better view of the ship. Can’t see it all as well from the first-class decks. It’s beautiful.”

The crewman gives them a hesitant look. “How about I see your tickets and I’ll get you turned back in the right direction, Mr. Rose, and—”

And Patrick is sure this is where the lie ends, where he gets put in some quarantine cell for the next week for keeping too close to David and maybe, just _maybe,_ it’ll have been worth it for the warmth radiating from the taller man’s arm securely around him.

But David continues to be full of surprises. “Mr. Raine,” He replies—and Patrick can see in his eyes there’s something else there, a little less of the usual sparkle to his gaze. But he doesn’t have time to think about that right now, because suddenly David’s pulling _two_ first-class tickets from the pocket of his jacket, and the crewman is looking at them and handing them back to David.

“My apologies Mr. Rose, Mr. Raine—” And there’s that look in David’s eyes again—and so, on instinct, Patrick reaches for his hand and squeezes it. It’s a shock to both of them, he thinks; particularly when he doesn’t pull away after that. “Where can I help guide you both?”

“I think back to the suite would be just fine,” David responds as he gets to his feet, the wavering in his voice so slight that Patrick would’ve missed it had all his attention not been entirely focused on the other man right now. “Don’t you?”

The look in his eyes says a thousand things, but none of them really matter to Patrick right now, looking up at David. “The suite sounds perfect.” And god, he hopes the reassurance he’s trying to convey comes across.

So he gets to his feet, picking up his book with one hand, fingers woven tightly through David’s with his other as the crewman escorts them down the stairs. Instead of going immediately back inside from where Patrick had emerged earlier, he leads them across the promenade—through crowds of people in clothes worth more than Patrick’s sure he’s made in a year. 

Really, he should feel anxious, putting on this kind of show, faking the part as this larger-than-life man’s partner when he’s not even entirely sure he’s _interested_ in men—but somehow, it feels as natural as breathing, walking side-by-side with David Rose, running his thumb across the top of his hand in some attempt to soothe whatever anxieties lie underneath. It’s instinct more than an intentional action, and he can’t help but wonder why he was never like this with Rachel.

As they make their way inside the ship again—into a much more ornate hallway than the ones Patrick had become used to in the few hours he’d been here—the answer becomes blatantly obvious, slamming in his chest in time with his heartbeat so loudly that he can’t even process what David and the crew member are chatting about.

Because as much as fifteen years with Rachel had felt wrong, this felt right—this fake, deceptive hand-holding and pet names and banter (which _was_ real and _definitely_ flirting) was _right._

It’s staring him right in the face, with carefully coiffed hair and perfectly tailored shirts, striking eyebrows and hidden smiles, with a lilting voice and kind eyes.

Patrick Brewer was gay.

No _might be_ about it.

The realization immediately shifts something in him; at once, he’s more relaxed and on edge at the same time. Because with that realization comes the fact that he’s been flirting with David Rose all afternoon. That he _likes_ David Rose. A lot. And he’s not entirely sure if he’s been completely obvious or not.

He can at least rest knowing that _David_ is interested in men, too; a fact he hadn’t been able to let sink in while they were outside. That fact came to him with another key piece of information that Patrick files away; David had a partner. Some Mr. Raine, who wasn’t on the ship. The final piece of information Patrick adds to his incomplete equation is that _look_ in David’s eyes, the lack of a spark, the hurt hidden under his candy floss, pleasant mask.

So the facts are these; David has a male partner, which means he’s interested in men. Men, possibly, like Patrick, who has spent the afternoon, apparently, flirting with him. Possibly not well. But that partner isn’t on the ship when he should be, and David seems _put off_ about it. Which means he could just as easily be a _former_ partner.

Of course, none of it really matters. David is a confident, rich man who lives in New York City, and Patrick’s the kind of guy having a complete life do-over at thirty that involves moving home with his parents in rural Ontario.

But he’s also a planner. So he allows himself the list of facts, if only to be just that. A list of facts.

As if the barrage of thoughts running through his head wasn’t enough, they take a turn into an ornate hall, throwing Patrick immediately into sensory overload. A warm glow comes from the lights around and above them, and lush carpet pads their steps as they turn the corner. The crewman stops in front of the second door down the hall, unlocking it and stepping back.

“As always, if there’s anything else you need, Mr. Rose—”

“—Thank you again, Stephen, it’s much appreciated. I’ll be sure to pass on your regards to my father.” Patrick can hear the rush in David’s voice, clearly relieved when the crewman—Stephen—gives David an appreciative nod and starts down the hall. 

David pushes open the door—and while Patrick certainly wasn’t under the impression the first-class rooms were the bunk style quarters he’d first settled into earlier, he wasn’t at all expecting what he steps into. The space is bigger than his flat in London, ornately decorated with one large bed in the corner, a door to a connecting room, a sitting area with a lounge and chairs, a walk out to what seems to be a _private deck_ , another door that seems to lead to nothing but _clothes_ —

“—I’m sorry—” David’s voice snaps him out of his shock, turning over his shoulder to face the man behind him as he closes the cabin door. “—I didn’t realize I’d get _you_ in trouble by being there, and it was the first thing that popped into my head to try to help you—”

Patrick turns to fully face David then, reluctantly untwisting their fingers from one another and bringing his hands to hold the taller man’s shoulders. It seems to ground David instantly, though nerves still dance in his eyes. Patrick files away the information for later. “David. It’s okay.”

“—Okay, but—”

“Nope. You just helped me avoid getting dropped back on shore when we stop in Queenstown. And considering I’ve barely got the cash to cover my train to Toronto when we pull into New York, you saved me from being completely fucked over and stranded in the middle of Ireland.” He feels victorious when that gets a hint of the anxious look off the other man’s face, clearly trying to hold back a smile and failing. 

“Fine. But—” Patrick moves to object, but David’s putting a finger up to _shush_ him, and Patrick has to actively stop the shiver that threatens to crawl down his spine. Christ. “— _But,_ I’m still allowed to apologize for putting you in an uncomfortable situation, even _if_ you rolled with it _far_ better than expected.”

“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not,” Patrick murmurs, his tone teasing.

“It’s the closest you’re getting.” With their gentle banter back, David’s seemed to relax even more—so, reluctantly, Patrick drops his hands from their grip on the taller man’s arms.

“Well, I’ll take it. And it was hardly an uncomfortable situation.” The words come out of Patrick’s mouth before he can think about it, and before either of them can dwell on what he’s said, Patrick speaks again, trying to change the topic. “—Besides, it gives me an excuse to see what first class is all about.”

“It’s pretty nice,” David hums in agreement, finally stepping completely into the cabin space and tugging off his coat.

“ _Pretty nice_?” Patrick turns to David. “This is bigger than the flat I left behind in London. I think you could fit two of that place in here.” He adds, running a hand along the back of one of the intricately detailed chairs. 

David’s on the other side of the room now, stepping in and hanging his jacket up in the closet room. Patrick only catches glimpses of the other clothes in there—bold patterns in shades of black and white like the rest of the clothes he’d seen him in today. Another _thing_ he gets to catalogue in his mind about David Rose. “But weren’t you like, a business guy or something?”

“Mmm, working for my ex-fiance’s family import business. I put most of my savings aside for the wedding, and I didn’t really need a lot of space living on my own.”

“—Wait,” David seems to be processing Patrick’s words slowly. “You said you only had cash for a train to Toronto. So you left basically all the money you’d earned over—”

“Over about ten years, yes.”

David gapes, and Patrick can’t help but smile at it. “— _Ten years_ behind because you decided to...what, just _be happy_ one day?”

Yeah. That’s kind of exactly what had happened. Rachel’s family had given him the job, after all—he’d worked for them, he was going to marry their daughter, he was so _close_ to that being the rest of his life. It was hardly their fault that _he_ hadn’t been happy. The least he could do was leave what they’d given him behind.

“...Well, when you put it like that—”

“—I mean, I don’t blame you—” David quickly recovers, stepping back over to where Patrick’s hovering. “I think you’re a little _crazy_ , but I don’t _blame you_ ,” He adds, teasing.

“—What about you?” Patrick blurts out, and David catches his eyes, clearly confused. “Are you happy?”

Furrowed eyebrows raise in shock for a second. Then, it’s like Patrick can see the guard David seems to put around himself rise up instantly, the man’s arms crossing his chest, fingers fidgeting with the silver rings that adorn one of his hands. “Okay, we’re _friends_ , at _best_ fake significant others to the crew on this boat, but I’ve still only known you since like, noon. I’m not even close enough with my _sister_ for that kind of question.” And even though David’s got the smirk on his face, like he’s joking, Patrick can tell there’s some element of truth to it, too.

It’s Patrick’s turn to apologize, then, unable to even allow himself to delight in the fact that the other man called him a friend. “Sorry, I just—” He gestures vaguely towards the door. “My awkward method to ask about your _real_ partner, you know. Small talk.” If he has ulterior methods beyond small talk, David doesn’t need to hear that right now.

David pauses, taking a second to roll his eyes as he thinks before replying. “—Ex. And I’m not sure I’d ever really have called _him_ my partner in anything.”

Really, he shouldn’t be so thrilled about something so sad. He’s about to apologize again when he’s cut off.

“—To be clear, though—” And there’s a slight earnestness laced into his aloof tone that catches Patrick’s attention. “I’m like. Over it. He was a complete ass, and I brought him to England with my family to try and fix things and he decided to go on some... _artistic spiritual quest_ across Europe and left me the day we arrived.”

“Hence the unused return trip ticket,” Patrick observes, pausing before he adds on—”Maybe I’m not as cultured as you, but...what the hell is an _artistic spiritual quest_?”

“Fuck if I know.” Patrick can’t stop himself from laughing, earning a whole, genuine smile on David’s face for it. 

There’s another one of those comfortable silences—but this one feels more dangerous. There’s more knowledge, now, between them. Hell, Patrick’s got more knowledge about _himself_ than he’d had an hour ago. And as much as he keeps trying to remind himself about how different their lives are, it’s moments like this that give Patrick Brewer a small spark of hope.

He’s infatuated, possibly for the first time in his life. It’s severely clouding his judgement. 

“—So, I was thinking—”

“—Maybe I should—”

They both attempt to break the air between them at the same time, but Patrick gives a quick gesture, insisting David speak first. 

“Um—well, I was thinking—since your quiet book afternoon was a bust because of me—” Again, Patrick moves to object, but David just keeps talking. “—it won’t be _quiet_ , but the least I can do is make sure you can have a nice dinner tonight away from your roommate. I can’t promise my family’ll be any better, but—the food will be.”

“—You don’t have to do that.” Patrick’s sure the slight shock is evident in his voice and on his face. His mother always insisted he was a terrible actor—her voice in his head has him thinking about how much David might already be able to see through him.

“I know, I just—you don’t _have to_ , but since the crew thinks you’re Sebastien anyway, we’ve got the seat, it’s—it’s already paid for and all, so—” He’s doing that thing again, using that nonchalant sort of tone about something that probably matters more than he’s letting on.

“—I’d like to, I just—” He starts quickly. “—don’t want you to feel obligated to me.”

And David just _snorts._ “I don’t pity people, Patrick.” And _fuck,_ that’s the first time he’s heard David say his name, and _finally_ he’s starting to get what people wrote poetry about.

“—I don’t think you do, David.”

Their eyes meet then in some sort of understanding—and Patrick allows himself the moment to take in little details, like the beauty marks on David’s perfect skin, the specific shade of his irises— “—Besides, I can use you as a buffer between me and my mother—”

“Oh, is that all I am to you?”

“That’s correct, yes.”

Patrick’s sure he’s seeing things at this point, positive he’s imagining David’s brief glance at his lips. It’s completely normal, being this close—Patrick’s overthinking things now that he’s _aware_ of whatever his feelings for David Rose are. He lets in a sharp intake of breath though, because David’s getting closer, even minutely so—

“— _David—_ ”

The connecting door slams open, and Patrick practically jumps out of his body (for what he’s now realizing might have been the second time this afternoon). In the doorway is a young woman in a long, ornate gown, her curly hair piled on the top of her head who he can only assume is the sister David’s mentioned—She’s staring at David with excited eyes and a gaping mouth, and another piece of the David Rose puzzle starts to click into place.

“—What do you _want_ , Alexis?” David practically hisses—and Patrick’s _sure_ he’s not imagining the blush this time. He feels like this is something he maybe shouldn’t be privy to, but he can’t stop smiling in amusement.

“I’m _sorry_ we’ve been here for _four hours,_ David. I didn’t think you’d already be having fun with some— _button_ ,” And there’s something about her tone and the way she briefly looks at him with a particularly bad wink that has Patrick sure that it’s a compliment. It’s his turn to blush now.

David, meanwhile, looks even _more_ horrified than he had moments ago, and Patrick wants to be offended— “—Okay, first of all, that’s _not_ what this is—” And if Patrick was unsure that maybe, just maybe, he’d been this close to kissing David Rose before, he’s sure that’s _exactly_ what it was, now. “— _This,_ ” David gestures at him now. “Is _Patrick._ From the deck.”

“Ooh, the handsome stranger who _harassed_ you into watching the ship leave port.”

Patrick can’t help it anymore, cutting in and giving David a bemused look. “I can’t tell if I’m more interested in the fact that you called me handsome, said I harassed you, or that you _did_ follow my advice—”

“—Okay, _this_ is a nightmare.” David mutters, meeting Patrick’s eyes with a glare. Patrick flattens his lips in some attempt to hide his grin, failing miserably. “—And that is _not_ what happened.”

“Ooh, right. He said you _accosted_ him.” Alexis hums, stepping into the room now and approaching Patrick with a grin, offering her hand. “Alexis Rose.”

He reaches to take it, shaking it with a conspiratory look. “Patrick Brewer.”

“—Patrick’s here, actually, because he’ll be joining us for dinner, which I’m now _regretting._ ” David calls over to them.

“I actually already canceled with Ray, so—unless you don’t want me to eat tonight—”

“Oh did you now? How did you do that?”

“I did, actually—”

There’s something about the almost-kiss—that’s what it was, there’s no denying it, now—that’s emboldened Patrick with his teasing. Flirting. _Flirting._ He’s been flirting with a man, with David Rose, and it feels like second nature.

“How’d you manage that, David?” Alexis hums, draping herself across one of the chairs, chin and arms resting on the back of it as she looks up at him.

“Oh, I just told a crew member he was Sebastien,” David shrugs. 

Alexis’ eyebrows shoot up, bringing her arms up to fold under her chin as she looks at her brother. “So you’re staying _overnight_ and spending the _week_ with us, that’s fun and _serious—_ ”

Patrick trades a quick, confused glance with David. “—No, see—my ticket’s in third class, so David flashed the other ticket so we didn’t get in trouble for being together—”

“Mhm,” She hums. “To a crewman, right?”

“Uh, yes? Obviously?” David’s brows knit together, coming over to sit on the lounge across from her.

“And then you came back down here.”

“I think you’re doing that thing where you completely stop listening to me—”

“ _—No_ , David,” Alexis insists, offense painting across her features. “I’m _listening_ to you tell me you paraded this button from the main deck to our room, past a _ton_ of other crew members who _all_ now think he’s with us. And if my experience trying to fit in as a princess to get out of Serbia, or the time I got across the border from Italy to France while posing as the daughter of a member of the French Parliament has taught me anything, it’s that you _can’t_ drop the charade now. Some random quartermaster sees him back around third class and he’s either in trouble because they’re supposed to be quarantined away from everyone else, or he’s in trouble because they find out you both were lying.”

Patrick finds his hands gripped white against the back of the lounge where David’s situated, trading a look with him. While there’s a decent part of Patrick deeply concerned with the fact that David’s sister has these experiences in her back pocket, the logical part of his brain knows she’s right. He’d been caught up in his own head on the way down, but they’d walked across the first class decks, past dining rooms and facilities—

He looks at David again, sees the same gears turning behind his eyes, morphing slowly into that guilty look he’d had when they first got here.

“Uh, Alexis?” He pipes up. “Can you give your brother and I a second?”

She looks at David once before giving a nod and getting to her feet. “Hey. Don’t stress about it. Ted’ll be happy to have the company—plus, it’ll be nice to have another buffer between us and mom and dad—” And that does make Patrick smile, because he can see glimpses of the similarities the two siblings have. “Besides, I’ve only known you for like, ten minutes and I already would much rather have you with us for a week over _Sebastien—_ ”

“—Okay, we asked for a second _alone_ , Alexis—” David snaps. She throws an equally agitated look back at him before giving Patrick a little wave, making her way back to the door she’d come in from. Just behind it, Patrick can spot an equally lavish living space—connected suites.

“If you need anything, David, I’m right next door. Nice to meet you, Patrick.” Her tone is genuine as she pulls the door shut behind her, leaving them alone again.

Patrick’s only known David for the afternoon, but he already knows what to expect. “—Don’t apologize,” He manages before David can even object, looking down at the other man where he’s seated. “I mean, _I_ should apologize. We got into this because—”

Because I didn’t realize I had a crush on you, and broke a ton of rules—laws?—to get you to spend any sort of time with me.

“—because of me. You were only helping. I can just own up to it, it’s _okay._ I can tell them I made you lie for me—”

“ _Absolutely_ not,” David sounds appalled at the mere prospect, pausing to think before he looks at Patrick again. “...I won’t apologize if you don’t throw yourself on the sword.” Patrick can tell from the resolute look on David’s face that there’s no budging here, and as much as Patrick feels a deep sense of guilt at his £5 ticket suddenly getting him into all _this_ , he can tell David’s resolve is steadfast.

“—Okay,” He breathes. “Okay, fine. But—I can’t impose on your space, I’ll sleep on the couch—”

He knows he’s said something wrong when David’s smirking up at him. “—Oh, that was always the plan. What, did you think—”

“—David—” Fuck.

“—Did you think I wanted you to—” He’s got a shit-eating grin, and Patrick’s face feels warm. 

“— _Drop it_ , David.” 

Patrick feels happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fast update compared to the last—but I wanted to give you all the start of the actual setup for this fic! I love a good class difference, and in wanting to keep it historically accurate in terms of how first and third class passengers could actually interact, this all came together!
> 
> A note: as Dan Levy said, homophobia doesn't exist in Schitt's Creek—so that is my primary historical inaccuracy in this fic. Otherwise, I tried to keep it accurate, but I decided to keep with Dan's vision for this universe. 
> 
> As always, subscribe to get updates, and kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. :)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to finally bring people along on this journey of a fic I've been working on for months! I hope you enjoy—if you do, I'd love it if you subscribed, or left some kudos or comments! I'd love to hear your thoughts and feelings and yelling. And again, if you have any concerns or stress on the subject matter, feel free to reach out here (or you can find me on tumblr at scarlets-witch!).


End file.
